Children, gather 'round and let me tell you the tale of The
BPD.
It was a balmy day in late winter, roundabout ought '12, before the world turned to ash. We were racing, which was a sport where men (and sometimes ladies) would hop into modified automobiles and operate them as fast as they could around a paved track. And at this event there was a young man who, in fine MM tradition, had set out to school slow bitches on "how it's done": Donald "DJ" Fitzpatrick.
DJ was the fastest of his generation. Balls of steel, the devil's own nerve, and a sense for the line that bordered on psychic. His dance partner, a white as snow BMW M3, was gleaming in the sun. She was clean, though not much to look at with her park bench on the truck, and HDRacing organic composite front spoiler. But she was eager to please, and on that day, DJ's 25th birthday, she was doubly so.
Our Hero had qualified first, and was sitting on the pole for his very first race of the 2012 season. But a plan had been hatched...
"We should do something to DJ's car," Rex exclaimed, apropos of nothing. "It's his birthday, and it's the first race of 2012." Justin concurred, "Let's go talk to Trevor at VBD, and get little vinyl dicks to plaster over the car." Julie balked at the price and reminded us we didn't really have enough time to accomplish something. The conspirators continued their plotting. "What about some pink racer tape? We could do something like, you know, a giant smiley face or vagina on his car." Rex generally used "vagina" to describe a lady's private parts. There were other words he used when he'd been drinking, but this particular morning he was sober, and aware of the words coming out of his mouth. James Johnson, the race director, thought that was a great idea, and Julie darted off to Oak Tree to buy a roll of pink racer tape. Then they all broke for lunch.
On the way back from lunch, Rex was having his CHNOPS cocktail (cleverly disguised as a chicken sandwich by the artisans at the Oak Tree Pagoda) and discussing his plot with ScottyB. Scott Bradford, scholar, artist,
gentleman was rightfully taken aback by the crudeness of Rex's plan. "A Vagina on the hood? Good God, man! What are we, barbarians? And who's going to make this tape-art? You?" He glared at Rex through his monocle. "I won't have half-efforts on Donald's automobile and on his Birthday?" He then began sketching, all in straight lines. "I will take it from here, sir. I will recruit Brian Maeng to assist me. You attend to your track duties."
The trap had been set.
DJ pulled up to the grid, and like any professional did a thorough walkaround of his car. He placed four bimmerworld stickers on each corner, hoping against hope he could achieve victory and maybe catch the eye of the Bimmerworld contingency. And with five minutes before the pace car would roll, he entered the car and belted in. The buckles might as well have been the steel jaws of a grizzly trap, as the well-oiled Madison Motorsports team flooded his car. Maeng, channeling his ancestors, dropped through the passenger window to "assist" DJ in fastening his belts, simultaneously blocking the rear view mirror and thus DJ's view of Scott.
Scott went right to work, maybe his best ever, deftly making art from the straight lines of pink tape. He had limited time, the pace car's lights were flashing, the previous session was pitting in. A single bead of sweat tumbled from underneath his tophat, traversing his furrowed brow. The gold rim of his monocle gleamed in the February sunlight, while his critical artist's eye squinted from underneath. "Control to grid, One minute please." Scott stepped back from his creation, quick as lighting tearing a few choice halfstrips of tape for the final finishing touches. Just enough time for Maeng to extract and Scotty to grab a picture:
![[Image: 430256_10100457228327639_7814208_5205606...1134_n.jpg]](https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/p480x480/430256_10100457228327639_7814208_52056068_1894851134_n.jpg)
The Warrior burst from his pole position, routinely putting down 2:11's, his best circuit netting him an unbelievable 2:10
flat. He ended that race a solid 4 seconds ahead of the entire field, barely breaking a sweat. He was milliseconds slower than his qualifying time of an pants-shitting 2:09.38. It was magnificent. As he pulled in the Race Director said "Hey, you got a new sponsor!" DJ finally saw Scotty's masterpiece. (he was likely the LAST person to do so, as he'd led the entire field for the past 20 minutes.) All had a good laugh for a moment, but then JJ's face grew cold, and dark. "You know, Chris saw that. He said he might DQ you for unsportsmanlike conduct. We're a national racing organization, we've got an image to hold up." DJ broke into a cold sweat, and JJ went on: "I'm not sure if he was serious or not, but he just got into his race car...we'll have to wait until the next session to see what he says."
The pit of DJ's stomach no doubt dropped to the ground. DQ'd on his first race of 2012? The Lionhearted victory of his rookie season?
DJ hastily removed the evidence of our transgression against nature. His sweaty, shaking hands could barely grip the tape-strip pubes affixed to his car.
Chris Cobetto stalked over as the last remnants of ballsack fell from the white deutch Stahl. His eyes were two coal-black holes, eyes where dreams die, windows into the oblivion that takes us all, eventually.
"Dude," he said, his voice ice cold. "You're an official. You should know better."
DJ cried out "I didn't know! I swear I didn't know! It's not my fault!" We all expected an expanding piss-stain on his racer suit.
Then Chris siezed him and gave him a big sloppy kiss. "Can't go fast around here without getting some shit, DJ. Fantastic run!"
DJ also won his next race, beating the ever-loving pants off of all comers.
You should have been there.
We will have beer at the hotel ready for you!
